Don’t need to draw party lines. “You only just turned fifteen, honey.”

His head lifts, and he looks at me, his eyes more gold than brown. “You went away to boarding school at sixteen.”

Yes, and I never came home again.

I want to go and wrap my arms around him and tell him if he goes, I will miss him every day he’s gone. I want to tell him that he’s not just my oldest son, but my heart. I want to tell him that I’ve just lost his dad and I’m not ready to lose him, too.

But I don’t. I can’t.

I can’t cry and can’t cling because I’m raising boys, boys who must become strong, independent men.

“True.” I force a smile.

“You made good friends,” he continues. “Aunt Marta and Tiana.”

I nod.

“And you ended up getting into Stanford, something you wouldn’t have done if you’d stayed here in Parkfield instead of going to St. Pious.”

I nod again.

He stands up, carries his plate and milk glass to the sink, and then looks at me. We used to be the same height. Now he has a couple of inches on me. “So can I?”

My heart is so heavy, it’s a stone in my chest. “Have you talked to your dad about this?”

“Yesterday, when you were at the movies.”

Of course. “And what did he say?”

“That he’d love it. That he misses us kids.”

I’m stunned by the wave of anger that shoots through me. He misses the kids, just the kids. Not me. Not his wife. Not his partner of seventeen years.

But why should he?

He’s come out of the closet. Discovered he’s gay. Discovered sex with a man is more fulfilling than sex with me. Jesus Christ. I grip a damp sponge in my hand and squeeze for all it’s worth.

I am so mad and so confused, yet according to Dr. Phil and every other relationship expert, I can’t say a word about it to the boys. Can’t speak against their father. Can’t show how shattered I am, because kids of divorce already carry around enough guilt as it is.

“So when could I start?” Hank presses. “After Christmas? At the start of the second semester?”

I take a slow, deep breath. “I don’t know.”

“Mom.”

“Do we have to do this now?” I joke weakly. “I haven’t even had my coffee yet.”

“Be serious. This is important.” Hank’s brow furrows. “It’s not that I don’t love you,” he adds gruffly.

“I know that.”

His expression turns pensive.